


Strawberry Daiquiri

by dragonQuill907



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bisexual John, Dirty Dancing, F/F, Flirting, Gay Bar, Gay Sherlock, John's on leave, M/M, i don't know how to tag, slight angst I'm sorry, they do the alcohols, they're also a little tipsy, what are tags, younger au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-06 02:15:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6733897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonQuill907/pseuds/dragonQuill907
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe coming out to the club with Harry wasn't such a bad idea, John thought mischievously as he locked eyes with the same curly-haired brunet he'd been admiring for the last fifteen minutes.<br/>The only problem was that the man at the bar had waved off everyone who had had the audacity to approach him in the entire time John had been ogling him.<br/>Well, there was that and the fact that his leave ended in less than a week.<br/>At least John wouldn't be alone in his defeat when the man inevitably rejected him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my fabulous friend Emma for being a fantastic beta

_Maybe coming out to the club with Harry wasn't such a bad idea_ , John thought mischievously as he locked eyes with the same curly-haired brunet he'd been admiring for the last fifteen minutes. A dark shirt clung to his chest, sleeves rolled to his elbows and top three buttons undone. His black-clad legs bounced relentlessly, one foot perched on the barstool. God, the man was beautiful, and John could see it from across the bar. He _would_ go up and start a conversation, but he held back.

Now, John was reasonably charming, reasonably attractive, and reasonably intelligent compared to some of the other blokes he spotted during his time at the club. He’d earned the nickname “Three-Continents Watson” for these very reasons. His peers claimed he could “shag your brains out” whilst “holding an unexpectedly intelligent conversation” and only smirk about it afterwards as he “makes you a delightful cuppa.”

The only problem was that the man at the bar had waved off _everyone_ who had had the audacity to approach him in the _entire time_ John had been ogling him.

Well, there was that and the fact that his leave ended in less than a week.

At least John wouldn't be alone in his defeat when the man inevitably rejected him.

He downed the last of his second pint and swallowed thickly. This would lead nowhere, even if it did manage to go _some_ where. Who’d want to stay with a bloke who’d just have to skive off to Afghanistan in another week?

John decided to go over anyway with a strange twisting in his gut assuring him that he would never forgive himself if he let the man go without even an attempt at getting to know him. He stood, wobbling only a little bit, and made his way to the beautiful man at the bar, shooting him a small smile every time those light eyes landed on his. As he stepped closer to the man, John realized that he’d been mistaken; the shirt wasn’t black, but rich purple that contrasted beautifully off pale skin. A dark skull pendant rested between the folds of the man’s shirt, laughing at John’s rather sorry attempt at flirting.

“Hi, gorgeous,” he said, all intelligent thought apparently deciding to take the night off.

The other man smiled into his glass before taking a dainty sip, then decided on setting the fruity drink on the counter. He turned his eyes towards John up close for the first time, and the shorter man was instantly lost in them. They were blue or green or yellow or silver, changing colors along with the lighting, dancing along with the pounding music of the club. Perhaps it was just the few pints swirling in his stomach.

“Oh, no, doctor, don’t be _boring_ ,” he said, his voice deep and rich and smooth, resonating in John’s body along with the music of the club. John’s knees nearly buckled at the sound. “I was _so_ hoping you’d be exciting.”

John smiled, a little put off but more intrigued than anything. “How’d you know I’m a doctor?”

The taller man smirked. God, John could get used to watching those lips - and that was a very bad idea. He’d only be in London for another week, he couldn’t-

“It’s almost painfully obvious,” the taller man drawled, tracing the rim of his glass with a long finger. “Luckily for us, I’m a bit of a masochist.” The man smiled as John’s breath hitched. Of course the posh git would notice something as minute as a shuddery breath. “Tell me: Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John cocked his head. “Afghanistan. You know, I’m going to feel like a massive cock if we’ve met before.”

“Oh, no,” the man assured, smirking. “I’d remember someone like you.”

“So, how do you know so much about me?” John questioned. “Hardly seems fair when I don’t even know your name.”

The man ignored John’s obvious prompt entirely. “Easy,” he said. “Jewelry, hair, hands, posture, tan lines. Army doctor. Afghanistan or Iraq? And you’ve already answered in favor of Afghanistan.”

“I don’t wear jewelry,” John responded, frowning.

Either the man was surprised at John’s stupidity or his persistence. It was hard to tell which one it was as the man's eyebrows rose.

“No, of course you don't. No rings or bracelets. They'd get in the way during surgery or practicing. I doubt they're military uniform, anyway. You _are_ wearing dog tags, though, so you’re in the army. Your posture and haircut practically screams military. Anyway, the callouses on your hands are just barely there but noticeable if one knows what to look for - which I do. They're exactly where they should be if one regularly handles guns, which you do. Tan lines, but not above the wrist - you’ve been abroad but not sunbathing,” the man explained quickly. “So… Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“I… Afghanistan, yeah. That- That was amazing.”

The man blinked a few times, his hand frozen halfway to his glass. “You think so?”

“Of course. It was extraordinary,” John remarked, thanking whatever deities were out there that his brain was working again.

A blush crept into the taller man’s cheeks. “I, um, I also know that, well, you're on leave, obviously, and you don't have an extended family, or not one you're close to, at any rate. I'd go so far as to say you haven't got much of an immediate family, either. A few weeks on leave, and you chose to come here instead of spending this time with your family and friends? Unlikely.”

John shook his head in wonder. “Brilliant!”

“Did I get it all right? Usually there's something I miss.”

“Yeah, most of it. Harry's the one who dragged me here, though. Probably off dancing with strangers and enjoying it a little too much.”

“Ah, a younger brother.”

“Oh, uh, no-”

“Cousin?”

“Not-”

“He's not your father. Might be an uncle, but that's unlikely as well. Could be a friend, more likely a- boy… friend?” The man frowned slightly, his face falling.

John flashed a reassuring smile. “No, I haven’t got one of those.”

“Good. I- I mean, I don’t have one either.”

John hummed. “Harriet’s a nice name, don't you think?”

“Damn. Sister, then?” the man questioned, pursing his lips and mesmerizing John.

The soldier nodded. “You’re fantastic, you know that?” he asked and smiled as the taller man’s cheeks turned an even darker shade of pink. “And I _love_ seeing you blush.”

The blush deepened as the man tried to hide behind his drink.

“Can I have your name?” John asked, licking his lips nervously.

“Sherlock Holmes.”

John grinned once again. “Well, Sherlock Holmes, my name is John Watson. Can I buy you a drink?”

“I’ve got this one,” he replied, nodding towards the daiquiri on the bar.

“Guess I’ll just have to stay until you finish it,” John argued, smirking slightly. “Unless, of course, you would rather I leave-”

“No! I- I meant that only… I have a drink already, but you do not. Shouldn’t I be the one offering?” Sherlock asked, his fingers twitching. “Also, the bartender is an acquaintance of mine, and I get my drinks on the house.”

“An acquaintance?”John asked.

“ _He_ fancies us friends,” Sherlock replied. “I can barely stand him. He’s useful for drinks, though. Haven’t paid for one in two years. What’ll you have?”

John shook his head fondly. “Just… just lager’s fine. You know, I’m- I’m usually the one buying. Not that I do this often! I meant…” John blushed as his nerves returned.

Sherlock nodded, his lips quirking. “I know, John.” The man raised his hand at the bartender to gain his attention, and he walked over immediately, running a hand through his brown hair.

“Sherlock,” he purred, leaning on the counter, “what can I get you, beautiful?”

“Best lager in the place,” the man replied, ignoring the other’s compliment. “And you might as well get another daiquiri ready.”

“Lager?” the bartender questioned. “You never-”

John cleared his throat, raising his eyebrows slightly as the bartender turned dark eyes on him.

“Who’s your friend?” the bartender asked, looking John up and down hungrily.

“Lieutenant John Watson,” the blond replied, drawing up to his admittedly unintimidating height. “And you?”

“John, this is Victor Trevor,” Sherlock said. “Victor, this is John Watson.”

“You’ve only just met, haven’t you?” Victor asked, narrowing his eyes and scowling.

“Yes-”

“But I have a feeling I’ll know him a lot better tomorrow morning,” John interrupted, flashing his best people-pleasing grin.

Victor’s face grew red, and he turned away angrily, slamming a pint glass down on the bar counter.

“Cheeky,” Sherlock muttered, a smirk playing at his lips. “Bit presumptuous, though.”

John shrugged. “We don’t have to go home with each other,” he said. “Bu-u-ut I’d rather not give him the satisfaction of knowing that. ”

“I quite like you, Lieutenant Watson.”

John felt his face redden. “Yeah, um…”

Sherlock leaned closer to John, licking his lips casually. “Like to pull rank, I see.”

“Hmm, yeah, a bit,” John admitted, his eyes catching on Sherlock’s full lips. He bit his own as he met the taller man’s kaleidoscope eyes. He could feel himself falling for this intriguing man already, and he knew it was definitely _not_ part of the plan.

John was pulled from his trance when a short blonde woman clamped onto his arm. He wrapped his hand around hers, turning towards her in concern and forgetting about his own uncertainties.

“C’mon, Johnny,” Harry whined, the alcohol on her breath making John crinkle his nose. “Come dance with me! You never have any fun.”

“I don’t-”

“Who’s your friend?”

“Sherlock Holmes,” the man introduced, flashing a stunning smile.

Harry grinned in response. “Johnny’s my big brother. He tell you he’s in the army?”

“He figured it out himself. Apparently, it’s obvious,” John replied. “Are you drunk?”

“A li’l,” she hiccuped.

“Harry-”

“Will you come dance with me?” she whined again. “Please, Johnny. Some… some guy keeps bothering Clara, and… and he thinks we’re just here with our gay guy friends. He doesn’t believe we’re in a gay club to lesbian.”

“‘Lesbian’ isn’t a verb, Harry.” 

“C’mon. I need my big scary army brother to tell him to piss off.” She playfully, lightly punching her older brother in the bicep.

“Harry,” John hissed, “the guy is probably twice my size, and you know it.”

“No, John,” she insisted, pulling his arm. “Please, come dance with us. He’s being a creep. You’re my big brother.”

John’s face softened as he nodded. “All right. Where is he?”

“Yay!” Harry squealed. “C’mon. He’s taller than you, to be honest, but I think you could take him in a fight.”

“I’m not fighting anyone, Harry.”

“I said you _could._ ”

John rolled his eyes before turning to Sherlock, who had remained strangely silent throughout the exchange.

“I’ll be back in a tick,” he said as his sister pulled him into the crowd of dancers. She led him towards a slim woman with dark skin and clothes who was talking heatedly with a man much taller than John.

“I don’t want you!” the woman was shouting.

“Come on, sweetheart,” the man drawled, grinning as he tried to snake his large hands around her lean waist.

“I’m a lesbian,” the woman - Clara, John assumed - replied. “I don’t like dick.”

“Babe, you’ve never had mine-”

John cleared his throat and stepped up to the man, craning his neck to look him in the eye. The man furrowed his eyebrows in confusion and stepped back, his dark eyes narrowing as he looked down at John. He crossed his rather muscular arms across his chest in an obvious act of dominance over the smaller man. So, he thought getting rid of Lieutenant John Watson was going to be easy. John was happy to let him; the man was about to run away with his tail between his legs as soon as John was done with him.

“Evening. John Watson. You are?”

“Evenin’. Name’s Wilkes.”

“Can you tell me why you’re still here?” John inquired calmly, quirking an eyebrow. “I’m sure the ladies have asked you to leave.”

“So, you’re the blonde one’s bloke, then?” the man laughed. He looked past John’s shoulder at Harry. “See? Knew you had a boyfriend, blondie.”

John nearly choked. “All right, listen. ‘Blondie’ over there is my _sister._ My _lesbian_ sister. And Clara here is her _lesbian_ friend. You, as a _heterosexual male_ , don’t really have a place here. In this club. At all. LGBT plus does not include overbearing heterosexual arseholes who think every girl in the world wants to screw them. Okay? Okay. How about you leave my sister alone?”

“Aw, so cute when you’re angry,” Wilkes chuckled, looking down at John as if he were a toddler. “You’re so very small.”

“Don’t care about height in the army as long as you can shoot a gun,” John replied coldly. “Didn’t get to be lieutenant for nothing. That being said, I’d advise you to run along.”

Wilkes grinned menacingly. “What if I don’t?”

“Listen to me closely, Wilkes,” John commanded as he put himself nearly chest to chest with his aggressor. “I’ve got a gorgeous man waiting for me at that bar, and I’d really like to avoid getting kicked out of this club for beating the living shit out of you. Leave my sister alone, or I’ll have to ruin both of our nights. I’d really hate to do that.”

Lean arms wrapped around John’s shoulders, and the scent of Sherlock’s cologne overwhelmed him.

“I’m closer than you think,” Sherlock drawled. “It was so dreadfully boring over there.” There was a pause as, John guessed, Sherlock raked his eyes up and down Wilkes’s form. “I like him, John. Should we take him home tonight?”

“Bit of a wanker,” John replied immediately. Sherlock smiled and giggled against his neck, and John almost floated out of his shoes.

The look of pure horror on Wilkes’s face was priceless. John would remember that face for years and laugh every time.

“You- You fucking perverts!” he exclaimed, backing away quickly.

Sherlock’s arms slipped away from John, and the taller man moved to stand almost timidly in front of him.

“I, um. Sometimes the only way is to be direct, you know. I didn’t mean-”

John grinned. “You’re brilliant.”

Sherlock smiled back, showing off white teeth. “Do you know you do that out loud?”

“I- I can stop-”

“No, don’t,” Sherlock insisted rather quickly. He bit his lip and looked at John through his dark eyelashes. “Dance with me?”

John swallowed. God, how he’d love to dance with the beauty in front of him, if only he were a bit more coordinated.

“I’ve always loved to dance,” the taller man added, and John couldn’t say no to that lovely voice, even though he knew he should. It wouldn’t end well. It wouldn’t end well.

“It won’t end well. I’ll admit I’m not very good,” John said, his nerves escaping in a defensive chuckle. “Not much time for dancing in my line of work.”

“We’ll change that,” Sherlock replied easily, grabbing John’s hips. “Just do what I do at first.”

“You know,” John laughed as Sherlock started moving his body to the music, “we never had our drinks.”

Sherlock laughed genuinely and guided one of John’s hands to his neck. “Victor spit in yours,” he replied as he slipped a leg between John’s. “I can get another daiquiri some other time. I’d rather be sober with you, anyway.”

John’s breath hitched, and he blamed it all on Sherlock’s jean-clad thigh brushing against his own. By the smirk on Sherlock’s lips, he’d noticed. John wanted to kiss those lips until they were red and swollen and _his_. Judging by the way Sherlock’s eyes widened, he’d noticed that, too. John decided he was definitely fine with it, and the soldier licked his lips in response.

If John had thought Sherlock couldn’t get any closer, he had been wrong. Their chests were nearly flush now, and they moved against each other to the beat of the music; this song was so mellow they were almost moving in slow motion. Sherlock undulated his hips, and John nearly died right then and there.

Although he had started out quite stiff, John was moving fluidly against Sherlock by the time the third song started playing. The blond ran one of his hands down Sherlock's chest in order to caress a bony hip before settling in the dip of the taller man's lower back. Sherlock’s fingers rested on his hips as the taller man guided John’s body against his own. The soldier pulled Sherlock’s forehead to his own, keeping his hand on the back of his neck to anchor them together.

“You’re worried,” came a small whisper.

John shook his head. “No.”

“You are,” Sherlock insisted. “You shouldn’t be. This is whatever you want it to be.”

 _That’s what I’m afraid of_ , John thought. _I want so much from you and it’s not fair._

“John?”

“You know, what I said earlier is true,” John said breathlessly over the music of the dancefloor. “We don’t have to go home with each other. Plus, you’re rather extraordinary. I’d quite like you to be more permanent than a drunken shag.”

“May I propose a happy middle ground?” Sherlock asked, wrapping his arms around John’s waist more securely, more possessively. The blond rolled his eyes and nodded. “I suggest we go back to yours - no, mine. You live with your sister. I suggest we go back to _mine_ , have a quick but satisfying, slightly _tipsy_ shag, and talk about it in the morning if you haven't already changed your mind by then.”

“I won’t.”

Sherlock frowned. “No to the shag, then? Pity.”

John laughed, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “No, I mean, I won’t change my mind in the morning.”

“There are experiments in my kitchen.”

“You left them unattended?”

Sherlock looked almost offended. “No. No, of course not! They’re not in critical stages. I’m not that irresponsible.”

John giggled. “Well, you can explain them to me tomorrow, yeah?”

“I- Okay,” Sherlock replied, grinning. “Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

John laughed. “Oh, God, yes. Good. Let’s go, then.”

He pulled Sherlock down just once to kiss him daintily on the lips, knowing he would be able to explore that mouth more thoroughly later.

“Are we going or not?” Sherlock questioned, his smile pressed against John’s lips.

“I don’t want to stop touching you,” John confessed quietly.

“You won’t have to if you come home with me.”

“Harry!” John called over his shoulder., “I’m- I’ll be back at yours in the morning. Don’t drive anywhere, all right?”

“‘Course, Johnny,” his sister drawled. “Have fu-u-un,” she added, winking at Sherlock.

John rolled his eyes.

“Oh, we plan on it,” Sherlock purred almost directly into John’s ear, taking John’s hand in his. He turned the blond around to face him and snaked his hand around John’s waist again, leaning close and whispering, “Come on. I’ll get a taxi.”

“Sounds perfect.”

~*~

“Oh- Oh, God. Yes, yes, yes-”

“ _Sherlock-_ ”

“Yes, _John_!”

“God, you’re bloody gorgeous.”

“Oh, yes, _more_. Just like that. Oh!”

“You’re brilliant. Fantastic. Bloody extraordinary.”

“JohnJohnJohnJohn _Jo_ \- Oh, God!”

“ _Fuck_ , Sherlock, so perfect. Yes, God, yes.”

“...”

“...”

“That was… good.”

“Good?”

“It was… ‘bloody extraordinary.’”

“Good.”

“...”

“...”

“Stay with me?

“What?”

“Will you stay with me? Only I'd hate to see you run out. And it's late, and…”

“I- Yes. Of course. God, yes.”

“Oh. All right. Good, then.”

Sherlock hummed against John’s chest, his racing mind temporarily at peace as a strong hand carded through his curls.

~*~

Sherlock woke up alone.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock woke up alone.

John’s side of the bed was warm, but there was no John. Sherlock’s heart sank and he buried his head into his pillow. Of course. Of course John had left. He hadn’t really liked any of Sherlock’s deductions; no one  _ ever _ liked his deductions. Sherlock had been a fool to believe any of it.

Sherlock’s eyes burned, but he willed them to stay dry. He would  _ not _ cry for John Watson. This wasn’t the first time he had woken up alone, and it wouldn’t be the last, and he was nothing more than a fool for believing it would go differently this time. It was simply Sherlock’s personality. No one could tolerate the detective for long, and, apparently, John Watson had reached his limit. How convenient that limit had been reached right after he and John had- No. Nevermind  _ when _ it happened. It  _ happened _ .

Trembling slightly, Sherlock climbed out of bed and slipped into the shower, where he washed away all traces of John from his skin. Afterwards, he slipped into his pants and brushed his teeth, resolutely ignoring the love bites littering his collarbone, the memory of John’s tongue running over his own, of John’s hands gripping his hair, of-

Sherlock spit into the sink.

“Stupid. So bloody  _ stupid,  _ to think John Watson was special,” Sherlock muttered, his voice rising with every word. “To think he was  _ different _ !”

“Sherlock?”

The detective slammed his hands on the porcelain sink before storming out of the bathroom in just his pants.

“What?” he spat, glaring at the blond standing in his kitchen, trying to hide the fact that almost his whole body was trembling with something he didn’t want to think about. “What is it; why are you here? Did you forget your mobile? That  _ horrible _ jumper?”

John’s brow furrowed. “No,” he said slowly, “I did the shopping.” John stared at Sherlock quizzically, but the detective still maintained his defensive stance, even though he was only in a pair of black pants.

“You… what?” Sherlock asked, admittedly a bit lost.

“I did the shopping,” John repeated, holding up two plastic bags. “I- Nothing in the fridge looked safe for consumption. You mentioned having experiments in your kitchen last night. I didn’t- Are you all right?”

“No. Yes, I’m-” Sherlock sighed and pulled at his hair, straightening suddenly. “I’m fine. You did the shopping.”

“I thought the least I could do was make you breakfast,” John replied, testing a smile. “I do make the best eggs.”

“Debateable.”

“You haven’t even tried ‘em, yet.”

Sherlock bit his lip and nodded. “All right.”

John grinned confidently. “Really?”

The detective nodded again, his eyes cast down.

“Hey,” John said softly, setting the bags down on the kitchen counter and walking towards Sherlock. “Hey, what’s wrong, lovely?” Sherlock closed his eyes as John stroked his cheek. “I didn’t mean for you to wake up alone. I just wanted to do something nice. I won’t leave you next time, I promise.”

“Next time? Is there a next time?” Sherlock asked just as quietly, still not daring to look up and into John’s ocean eyes. 

John smiled as he ran a calloused finger over Sherlock’s cheekbone. “If you want a next time, there will be. Otherwise, I’ll just make you breakfast and be on my way. It’s probably better like that, anyway. My leave-”

“No,” Sherlock said quickly. “No, you should stay. I’d quite like breakfast. Can’t say I’ll eat much of it.”

“Oh, come on, it’s not  _ that _ bad,” John laughed.

“I generally don’t eat much,” Sherlock explained as John emptied his bags onto the counter. The detective leaned against the doorframe, watching the man with interest.

“No?” asked the blond over his shoulder.

“No,” replied Sherlock.

John hummed. “Maybe that’s why you’re so thin.”

The flat was silent but for John cracking eggs into one of Sherlock’s cleanest pans.

Feeling like a fool, the taller man wished he had grabbed something more than just his pants before he’d made such a fuss about apparently nothing. John would make him breakfast and leave, and that would be that. 

It was almost worse than waking up alone. Now, Sherlock not only had to block out memories of John in bed - John on top of him, John crying out his name, John kissing him with the utmost sincerity - but in his kitchen as well, making him eggs for breakfast. It was horribly domestic, and Sherlock’s heart lurched. He would never have this again.

He wasn’t strong enough to ask John to leave.

“Maybe you should get some clothes on. It’s a bit chilly in here,” John said idly, turning to Sherlock and smirking. “And as much as I love seeing you in those pants, I really would feel terrible if you got sick.”

Sherlock nodded and reappeared in the kitchen a few minutes later, wearing a lighter version of what he had been wearing at the club. He leaned against the doorframe once again, watching John carefully flip the sausage patties he’d fried.

“When are you leaving?” he asked, crossing his arms.

John froze. “I- Right now, if you want me to,” he said, keeping his gaze away from Sherlock. “I’ll just finish up the eggs and go back to mine, if that’s what you want.”

“Of course it’s not what I want,” Sherlock snapped coldly. “But you will. You’ll leave. I’m simply asking when you plan on doing so. I’d rather not get too comfortable with you around if it’s quite soon.”

The soldier only continued making breakfast. Sherlock nearly seethed in irritation.

“Doctor Wat-”

A pan slammed heavily on the stove, and John still refused to look at him. “ _ Don’t _ call me that. I told you last night that I’d rather you be something permanent in my life than a drunken shag,” the soldier stated. “If that’s all it was to you, then, yeah, maybe I should go.”

Sherlock bit his lip as the soldier hastily cleaned up the pans he’d been using, leaving a large plate of food on the counter. It looked, even to Sherlock, quite tasty. He shook himself away from irrelevant thoughts and caught John’s arm as he brushed past.

“John, please, I…” Sherlock paused as John’s dark blue eyes met his own. “I didn’t expect you.”

“What?” John furrowed his eyebrows, and Sherlock longed to press a kiss to the wrinkled skin before he realized he could. He had permission to do that, now that they’d shagged, right?

John was quite receptive of Sherlock’s lips on his skin, and all tension from his body melted away almost immediately. Sherlock’s stomach dropped as John’s fathomless blue eyes locked onto his, searching for something Sherlock couldn’t name.

“You were unexpected,” Sherlock repeated. “No one tolerates me for long. My deductions chase them away, but  _ you, _ John - you asked for them. You were fascinated. You asked for permanence after knowing me for not even an hour. You asked me what  _ I _ wanted. You weren’t disgusted at the sight of my flat. You went out to get the shopping. You- You came  _ back _ . You are unexpected.”

“I don’t know who left you, but I hate them,” growled the doctor seriously.

Sherlock barked out a laugh, surprised at what John had chosen to focus on. He released John’s arm slowly, swallowing thickly.

“I’m not permanent.”

“I’ll adapt,” John insisted.

It was Sherlock’s turn to furrow his brow. “Why?

John rolled his eyes and gathered Sherlock in his arms. “Because the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen was you this morning: drooling on your pillow, those insane curls of yours like a dark halo, the sun making your pale skin glow. I’d like to wake up to that every morning I possibly can.”

Sherlock’s lips quirked. “I’d forgotten to mention your writing hobby.”

John giggled and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s before asking, “That obvious, is it?”

“Well, when you wax lyrical like that,” Sherlock replied, chasing John’s lips with his own.

They kissed sweetly until John pulled away.

“Eggs are getting cold,” he said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes before agreeing, and they sat across from each other at the table after Sherlock moved his experiments to one side.

“Your leave ends soon,” Sherlock said, pushing eggs around his plate.

“Six days.”

“And… when will you be back after that?”

John shrugged. “When the war’s over. Or I’m killed.”

Sherlock grimaced. “Don’t-”

“I’ll be back in London either way.”

“John, please. Don’t.”

“I’m in the mood for a cuppa,” John said, changing the subject entirely. “Where do you keep your tea?”

“Top left cabinet, bottom shelf,” Sherlock replied stiffly.

“Beautiful,” John commented as he put the kettle on to boil. “How do you like your tea?”

“I’ll have coffee, actually. Black, two sugars.”

“Sure,” John agreed, his eyes landing on the coffeemaker next to the fridge. “Right. So, Sherlock, what do you do?” he asked casually. Forced.

“I’m a consulting detective. The only one in the world, in fact. Made up the job myself,” replied Sherlock proudly. “When the police are out of their depth, which is always, they come to me.”

“That’s where your deductions come in, yeah?” John asked, smiling at Sherlock over his shoulder.

The detective nodded. “And we’ve established that you’re an army doctor. You were planning on being a surgeon, correct?”

“Yep. How’d you know?” John inquired.

Sherlock rolled his eyes as John set down his coffee.

“No, I really mean it,” the blond insisted. “What gave it away?”

“Steady hands,” Sherlock said. “Precise. I got that from when you-”

“Ah. That'd be it,” John replied, blushing slightly. “Obviously.”

“How old are you?” Sherlock inquired casually. “I’ll assume you’re in your late twenties.” 

“Twenty-eight,” John replied. “And you? Early twenties, I’d say, yeah?” 

“Twenty-three.”

John nodded, chewing thoughtfully. “Where’d you go to uni?”

“Graduated from Bart’s last year,” Sherlock replied. “Chemistry.”

“Figured,” John said. “I went to Bart’s as well, before I enlisted. Got most of my training in the RAMC, honestly.”

They were silent for a while, each tucking into their respective plates of food.

“I’ll write to you,” Sherlock said suddenly. “If we- If you choose to continue this…  _ thing… _ with me, turn it into a relationship, I would not be averse to continuing it whilst you are away. I would be averse, however, to you dying there.”

“I’ll try not to make a habit of it, then,” John said, smiling. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“I assure you, John, a little distance won’t change anything.”

“Won’t it?” the blond asked.

“No. I’ll write to you.”

“You say that, but-”

“I don’t say anything I don’t mean.”

John sighed. “All right. Thank you, Sherlock.”

“We’ve only got six days before you leave again,” the detective said. “I suspect you’ll want to spend half of that with your sister or other family members, but we should… We should do… something.”

The blond nodded. “Tomorrow night,” he said, licking his lips nervously. “Dinner?”

Sherlock grinned. “I know just the place.”

~*~

“Please, be careful.”

“I will.”

“Come back to me in one piece.”

“I’ll try.”

“Promise me.”

“I can’t do that.”

“...”

“...”

“I know you can’t. But please, John-”

“I know, lovely. I’ll try my best. Believe me, I don’t fancy dying, especially not when I’ve got you to come back to.”

“Don’t try to be the hero.”

“You know I can’t promise that either.”

“... I know.”

“Don’t get into too much trouble, all right?”

“I can’t promise that.”

“God help me, I know.”

“You love it.”

“I do. I- I have to go.”

“Wait! Take this.”

“The skull? Sherlock-”

“Take it. Return it to me when you’re back in London.”

Sherlock kissed him goodbye in the middle of the airport, nearly wrinkling John’s uniform with the force of his grip.

~*~

Somewhere in Afghanistan three weeks later, John woke up alone, a dark skull pendant clutched in a tight fist.

~*~

Somewhere in London, Sherlock woke up alone, an absolutely abysmal jumper clutched to his chest.


	3. Chapter 3

John woke up with a head of dark curls beside him.

“Sher...lock?” he slurred, blinking groggily. He was in a hospital room, IVs in his hands and white blankets over his legs. Sharp pain shot through his shoulder as he shifted in a halfhearted attempt to take in his surroundings. 

“John!” Sherlock cried, his head snapping up from its position on John’s hand. “John, dear God. I told you not to die, you idiot!”

“Am I dead?” John asked. He coughed weakly, staring into the worried face of the man he loved. “Would explain why I’m looking at an angel.” He grinned as widely as he could under the circumstances.

Sherlock didn’t laugh. “You great bumbling buffoon. You almost died, and that’s the first thing you say to me?”

“Forgive me for not being more eloquent,” John replied, smiling. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you, lovely. And I’m high on painkillers. Morphine?”

“Morphine,” Sherlock affirmed. “There are some ice chips here.”

“Ta, that’s great. Shoulder?” John asked as Sherlock handed him a cup.

“Shot,” the detective replied angrily. John felt the emotion was directed more at the bullet than at him.

John hummed thoughtfully around an ice cube. “I think I remember it. I was- I was trying to help Johnson. He- Oh, God.”

“John, I told you not to be a hero,” Sherlock said angrily, narrowing his eyes. “I told you to be careful.”

“That was years ago.”

“Eighteen months.”

“God, was it?” John mused. He coughed again before continuing, “Seems like longer over there. Nothing really stops.” The soldier stared down into his cup, remembering the hot sand, the non-stop work on the injured, the dying, the dead, but there was always one thought to keep him going, to give him the hope of return. “God, I missed you.”

“John-”

“I know you’re pissed at me, lovely, but please let me kiss you,” John pleaded. “I haven’t seen you in so long, Sherlock.”

John’s beautiful detective leaned in and gave him a soft kiss on the lips. Before he could pull away, John grabbed the back of his neck and kept him close.

“I love you,” Sherlock whispered brokenly.

“I love you too,” John replied.

Three days later, John was still in hospital, and Sherlock was still at his side. They were discussing Sherlock’s new flat - the git had decided to move both his and John’s belongings there without asking - when a man with silver hair and a haggard face barged in the room.

“Sherlock, what the hell are you doing here?” he demanded. “I’ve been texting you for… ages…” The man’s voice drifted off as he noticed John on the bed.

“I don’t care what case it is,” Sherlock snapped. “I don’t care even if it’s a ten.”

“Is this him, then?” the man asked, gesturing towards John.

“Sorry, who are you?” the blond asked, frowning.

The silver-haired man had the decency to look a little sheepish. “Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade-”

“Ah!” John exclaimed. “The DI! Captain John Watson. Come in.” John gave a cheeky grin. “Thanks for keeping my crazy boyfriend out of trouble.”

Greg laughed, all tension leaving the room at the sound. “He’s a marvel on cases!”

“So I’ve heard. Thanks for letting him on,” John replied, smiling widely. He held out a hand, wincing only slightly as Greg gingerly shook it.

“The Yard wouldn’t solve half the cases they do if it weren’t for me,” Sherlock commented, glaring at Greg’s hand.

“That’s very true, and I’m very grateful,” Greg said. “That being said, I do have a case for you.”

“No.”

“Sherlock,” John started, “love, you can-”

“No, John,” Sherlock interjected. “I want to be here with you. If I wanted a case, I would’ve bothered Lestrade about it already.”

John shot a concerned glance at Greg.

“It’s fine,” the DI assured. “We’ll figure it out. Uh, get well soon, then, Mr.-”

“John’s a doctor,” Sherlock snapped.

“Just call me John,” the blond said, rolling his eyes. “Thanks, Lestrade. Best of luck on your case.”

Lestrade nodded and left the room, but only after calling out, “Hope to see more of you, John!”

The doctor laughed as the detective inspector left the hospital room.

“Is your brother going to pop by again?” John asked. “I rather liked his last visit.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and John grinned.

“My brother simply wishes to accommodate your needs.”

John sighed. “Do you think he remembers when I told him I wouldn’t spy on you for money?”

“No, I- I’m sure he wants to make you comfortable here in London,” Sherlock said. “He knows how important you are to me.”

John felt his face soften. “Oh, my lovely Sherlock.”

“You’ve called me that since the first morning we spent together,” mused the detective. “Why?”

“Because it’s true,” John replied, “and I love you.”

The doctor grinned as his boyfriend blushed.

“You’re being discharged today, you know,” Sherlock pointed out.

“I can’t wait to see your flat,” John said, beaming.

“Our flat,” Sherlock corrected.

~*~

“Sh- Sher- No. No, God- Sh-”

“John?”

“Sher… No, God!”

“John!”

“SHERLOCK!”

“John-”

“Sherlock, God, are you okay? Shit, I’m so sorry-”

“It was just a nightmare, John. I’m okay.”

“Did I hurt you? Shit. I’m so sorry, lovely.”

“No, I’m okay. You didn’t touch me. You’re home, John.”

“God, Sherlock, I-”

“No, John. It’s okay. Everything’s okay.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, John. Come here.”

~*~

Sherlock and John vowed never to let the other wake up alone again.


End file.
